


Porcelain Regrets

by BonesAndScales



Series: Lay my heart down [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (hannibal is into it though), Bottom Hannibal Lecter, Choking, Crying, Dom Will Graham, Dubious Consent, Face Slapping, Gun Fucking, Gun Kink, M/M, Sub Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:40:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26579980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BonesAndScales/pseuds/BonesAndScales
Summary: “Whatever you want, you'll have to earn,” Will says, pleasantly surprised by the sharp though quiet intake of breath those words elicit from Hannibal. “On your knees. Hands behind your back.”In which Hannibal gets intimate with Will's gun.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Lay my heart down [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1930498
Comments: 4
Kudos: 136
Collections: Sub Hannibal Week 2020





	Porcelain Regrets

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from my darling spouse who wanted some gun fucking. Many thanks to Seb for the beta!
> 
> Enjoy!

“I’m not innocent. You saw to that.”

“If I’m the Ripper and you kill me, who will answer your questions? Don’t you want to know how this ends?”

Will knows from experience that there is no use trying to ignore the spike of interest in him. It is unfortunate that he and Hannibal are both creatures driven by their curiosity. It gnaws at them like gangrene, pulls them in each time like a drug. It is even more unfortunate that Hannibal is very aware of that fact and has no qualm in using either his own curiosity or Will’s.

Will is sure his expression is carefully blank, but there is a disgusting look of satisfaction on Hannibal’s face.

He steps forward until his gun is mere inches from Hannibal’s head. Hannibal turns his face away, eyes closed in a dreadful imitation of human fear—Hannibal knows fear, Will has felt it from him before, but the way he processes and expresses it is so entirely remote from anything he has ever seen, he can barely qualify it as _human_. This, right now, is Hannibal trying to reproduce a type of fear he only knows and understands in the shallowest of ways. Will would be entertained, if he were not so goddamn mad at him.

“I don't want you to pretend, Doctor. I'm tired of your lies,” he says. “Look at me.”

Hannibal obeys immediately, and indeed there is no trace of fear in his eyes. He had closed them to conceal his excitement. “I had hoped that we would be past any animosity by now, as all the charges against you have been dropped. You have cleared your name.”

“There's no clearing, the harm is done. Nobody cares if I was acquitted, all they’ll remember is that I was suspected of multiple murders. You must be very satisfied with yourself.”

“You accuse me when I fought relentlessly for your release from the hospital, to the point of humiliating myself in court.”

“You forget the part where _you_ are the one who put me there in the first place.”

Hannibal sighs. “It saddens me that you still believe I—”

“ _Quiet_ ,” Will snaps, and Hannibal immediately stops. “I'm going to grow tired of your little game of pretend very quickly, Doctor. If you must lie, I'll forgive lies by omission.”

Hannibal considers his words, and nods. “Not once have I doubted your words and claims of innocence, when the rest of the FBI turned their back on you. I've always had your best interest at heart.”

“Don’t give me the altruistic speech, Doctor, this is unbecoming of you. You've always wanted _me._ You want something from me, for _yourself_ , and you realised you couldn't get it. Not like this.”

Hannibal remains silent and Will knows he is right.

“Whatever you want, you'll have to earn,” Will says, pleasantly surprised by the sharp though quiet intake of breath those words elicit from Hannibal. “On your knees. Hands behind your back.”

A heavy moment of silence passes between them, tension hanging thick in the air. Then, to Will’s delight, Hannibal lowers himself to his knees and clasps his hands behind his back, his eyes boring into Will as he goes. The gun follows him in his descent, steadily pointed at his forehead throughout.

Will hums, savouring the spectacle of Hannibal Lecter kneeling at his feet, looking at him with unveiled desire.

He takes Hannibal's chin between two fingers, to make their eyes meet. “I'm going to fuck your mouth with the gun, then I'll fuck your ass.”

“With the gun too?”

“What else?”

Hannibal's eyes flicker down for a second towards Will's crotch.

“I said, whatever you want you'll have to earn. Open your mouth.”

Hannibal parts his lips eagerly for Will to shove his fingers in, pressing on his tongue and cheeks, reaching in deep until Hannibal gags and tilts his head back in discomfort. He runs his fingertips along the sharp teeth. He would quite like to see him defanged. Perhaps one day. He pulls his fingers out, glistening with saliva, and coats Hannibal’s lips with it, until they shine a deep red, then spreads it over his chin and cheeks.

On impulse he slaps him. A surprised gasp escapes Hannibal’s lips, and oh what a lovely feeling to catch him off guard. Barely has Hannibal straightened up to look at him that he slaps him again, and again and again, until his cheek turns as red as his lips. When he stops Hannibal’s pupils are blown with pleasure, almost entirely swallowing the warm honey of his irises.

Will runs his hand through Hannibal’s hair brusquely, making several strands fall over his face and eyes, then grabs a handful and pulls until his throat is a long, exposed, bony column. His Adam’s apple jumps enticingly as he swallows. Will traces a finger over it before covering his whole neck with his hand, tight enough to feel the blood pumping through his carotide.

“Don’t move,” Will says, and this is all the warning he gives before shoving the gun in Hannibal’s mouth.

Hannibal's eyes close again as he starts to suck on the barrel, his throat bobbing against Will’s palm. More saliva pools at his lips, trickling in thin rivulets down his chin. Will forces the gun deeper, feels it scrape against Hannibal’s palate until he gags and tilts his head back for respite. His hands shoot out from behind his back to hold onto Will’s legs, though he does not push him away. Will grabs his hair again and pulls hard.

“Keep still.” he hisses. And without ceremony he thrusts the gun all the way down Hannibal's throat.

Hannibal chokes, his body quivering under Will. He blinks several times, sending tears tumbling off his eyelashes and down his cheeks. Snot and saliva trickle down his mouth and chin but he obeys and keeps still. He breathes deeply through his nose, swallowing around the gun. When the trembling subsides, he places his hands behind his back again.

“Good boy,” Will praises, petting his hair.

When he takes the gun back there are droplets of blood on the barrel, scraped from Hannibal's throat. Hannibal buckles over, coughing in his hand. He spits saliva turned pink with blood into his palm, then looks up at Will with bright eyes.

“Was my performance satisfactory?” he asks, his voice raw from the assault of the gun.

“It was adequate,” Will concedes.

He leaves him on the ground to go look for a towel. There is a pile of clean dishcloths in one of the cupboards, he picks a handful and throws them at Hannibal to wipe his hands and mouth.

“Get up. Take off the coat and the jacket. Put your hands on the counter.”

Hannibal’s knees creak when he gets to his feet. He throws the towels in the sink and shrugs his coat off as instructed, draping it over his arm before looking around for a suitable place to hang it.

“Leave it on the floor.”

Hannibal freezes. He stares at Will for a moment. “It will wrinkle quite badly.”

“The floor, Doctor Lecter,” Will repeats.

Hannibal looks down at his coat, eyebrows pinched, then compromises by folding it carefully and leaving it on the floor away from the kitchen island, where it won’t risk being trampled on. The jacket follows suit, not without a mournful look from Hannibal.

He strides over to the kitchen island, leaning forwards, back straight, to place his hands flat on the cold surface of the counter. Will joins him, standing behind him, so close he can almost feel the heat of Hannibal’s body. He reaches around to open his belt and zipper, pulling pants and underwear down to his knees. With a hand on his upper back, he pushes Hannibal down to lay on the counter, presenting his ass to Will.

He runs a hand along his back, watches the play of muscles under the shirt, the soft arch of his spine at the small of his back, the lines of his shoulder blades jutting out against the fabric as he rests his palm in between. Going lower he grabs an asscheek, kneading it between his fingers before giving it a firm slap, making Hannibal groan. He swats the other cheek for good measure.

He slides his hand back up, feeling a shiver wrack Hannibal’s body behind his trail, over the vulnerable curve of his neck and finds his hair again. He grabs a handful to yank his head back, earning a satisfying snarl of pain from him.

“Eyes forward.”

He kicks Hannibal’s feet as far apart as the pants at his knees will allow and rucks the hem of his shirt at the small of his back. Hannibal’s rim winks as the cold barrel of the gun presses against it. There is nowhere near enough saliva to make the whole thing pleasant, but when has Hannibal ever taken Will’s comfort into consideration before undertaking anything?

Without thinking further about it, Will pushes forward. Hannibal’s hole resists for a moment though he does try to push back into the gun, breath held. The muzzle pops in. Hannibal’s entire body jolts, a surprised squeak pushed out of him. His rim twitches around the end of the barrel, already red from irritation. Will presses forwards, feeling Hannibal clench further with every millimetre. The shaking expands from his arms to his back and legs, and soon he is wracked with shivers. Though he tries to muffle his moans, never once does he ask Will to stop; on the contrary his entire body begs for more, pushing back into the gun and Will.

At last the trigger grazes Hannibal’s rim and he presses his forehead to the counter, heaving and scrabbling at the hard surface of the counter but finding nothing to hold onto. Will is having none of this. He yanks Hannibal’s head up by the hair again, making him arch his back deeper, and spreading his hole wider. His shoulders and back rise and fall with each gulp of breath in a sensuous wave under his clothes.

“Eyes forward,” Will repeats, his voice cutting and promising hell for disobedience.

“I’m...I’m sorry,” Hannibal manages to say in between labored breaths.

Without waiting for him to adjust, Will starts a steady rhythm, thrusting the barrel in and out of his ass. Despite the pain Hannibal falls into the rhythm, his hips swaying back and forth with Will’s movements.

When he gets comfortable, Will picks up the pace and Hannibal’s voice falters, climbing higher as soft moans turn into depraved mewls, ringing loud and clear in the silent kitchen. Will lets go of his hair to wrap his hand around his neck, squeezing until no more air passes through Hannibal’s lips, only strangled whimpers. He waits for Hannibal to struggle from lack of oxygen before relaxing his hold. Hannibal gulps in precious air in his burning lungs before Will chokes him again, cutting off his moans. He continues like this for a while, allowing Hannibal a few lungfuls between breathless moans. Eventually, he closes his hand around Hannibal’s throat but not enough to cut off the airflow, just enough to make him dizzy with the scraps of oxygen he can draw.

Hannibal’s skin glistens with sweat, his shaky moans coming out strained and wheezy. His thrusts become erratic, hips pushing back in jerky uneven movements and knees ready to buckle under his weight. He is close.

Will sees him reach down to take himself in hand. He lets go of his neck to snatch his wrist and bends his arm behind his back in a lock tight enough to make Hannibal cry out in pain, arching under the pressure. Will leans forward to whisper in his ear, tilting the gun down to press on Hannibal’s prostate.

“Did I say you could move?”

“No,” Hannibal hisses between clenched teeth.

“Then why are you disobeying?”

Another thrust right onto his prostate has him screaming, chin snapping up. Heaving breaths rattle him, so close to sobs.

“I can't… I can't come like this.”

“You can and you will.”

Will resumes his movements, pressing downwards on the way in and out. Hannibal shakes apart in his arms, but he can hardly struggle anymore, his arm painfully twisted in his back.

“Come.”

“I… I can't…”

“I said, _come_.”

One last vicious twist to the angle of the gun and Hannibal is howling under him. His body convulses, contorting in Will’s grasp. He lets go of Hannibal’s arm when he feels it about to break under the pressure, not that Hannibal can do anything about his newfound freedom. As his last spurts of semen stain the kitchen island, he slumps on the counter, heaving and blissed out. His shirt sticks to his back, the collar and the top of his spine soaked through with sweat. Will can now see the tear tracks running down his cheeks, cutting through the flush running across his cheeks and nose.

Will pulls the gun out of Hannibal’s ass, making him moan as the barrel scrapes one last time against his oversensitive insides. A trickle of blood follows, dripping down Hannibal’s perineum, his balls and his spent cock, falling to the ground with his cum. Oh, well.

Will kneads Hannibal’s shoulder, checking if anything broke in the process. Nothing pops. In the afterglow his breaths have evened out, deep and exhausted, almost sleepy. He does not react when Will brushes his hair back from his forehead.

Will gathers a handful of towels from the same cupboard, uses one to wipe his gun, and another to dab at the pearls of blood dripping down Hannibal’s rim. Hannibal remains absolutely still save for the rise and fall of his chest.

“You took it remarkably well,” Will says.

“This isn't the worst I've had.”

Will's hands still at the words.

“Not this way,” Hannibal corrects. “I'm no stranger to rough treatment during sexual intercourse, all in agreement of course.”

“Are you, now.” Will throws the soiled towel with the others, and pulls Hannibal’s pants back up. The tearing will require more attention, but that is not his domain of expertise nor is he inclined to call an ambulance for Hannibal. For now he just runs his palm over his lower back, in a poor attempt at straightening out the wrinkles—he will deny it as an attempt for comfort to his dying day. “That's not the sort of information you should trust me with, Doctor.”

“I'm sure you'll know what to make of it.” Hannibal pushes up on his elbows, back arched and dipping at the waist. “Are you sated?”

“Are you?”

“I think it's quite obvious that I am. Did I earn anything?”

Will arches an inquisitive eyebrow.

“You said if I wanted anything, I’d have to earn it,” Hannibal clarifies. “Did I?”

Will can feel the corner of his mouth twitch up despite himself. “I guess this was enough of a reward for you.”

“Does it mean I’ll have to earn more?” Hannibal asks, _smiling_ , smiling playfully despite everything Will just did. Or perhaps because of; Will would not be surprised. He smiles back either way. It did satisfy him to see Hannibal fall apart in his arms, a repetition would not be unwelcome.

“I guess you'll have to.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments feed the muse :3


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